


Late Nights in Cambridge

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: (not Sherlock/Jim), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Cambridge, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Murder, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Sherlock was a slag in uni, fighting leading to sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:35:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24543955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The shot still echoed among the tall ceilings of the Roland Kerr Lower Education College. Sherlock got his answer in a murderer's dying cry......but that wasn't the first time he'd heard Jim Moriarty's name.
Relationships: Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 5
Kudos: 26
Collections: Holmestice Exchange - Summer 2020





	Late Nights in Cambridge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Trobadora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trobadora/gifts).



> This fic has been written for the Holmestice Summer 2020 exchange, as a gift for Trobadora. who requested Sherlock/Moriarty. 
> 
> 6/20/2020: The Holmestice mods have lifted the cloak of anonymity, so I feel it’s safe for me to add a real author’s note. This is not a typical pairing for me, and I appreciate those who decide to give it a try. Read the notes below regarding the tags, please. 
> 
> Deep, eternal gratitude to 221bJen for beta service and support above and beyond. Cheers, love. 
> 
> Please see the notes at the bottom for a discussion of the tags.

The shot still echoed among the tall ceilings of the Roland Kerr Lower Education College, and the rage still shimmered in Sherlock’s rushing veins. He would have his answer, he  _ would, _ and teeth clenched, fists tight, swallowing the disgust he felt at such cruelty, he dug his polished oxford into the wounded man’s shoulder.

He did get his answer, in a murderer’s dying cry. 

_ “Moriarty…” _

The name sent a shock of ice through Sherlock’s body. He reeled back, fighting to keep his balance on a planet just set spinning out of control. Surely not. It couldn’t be. He wiped his mouth and repeated the name without sound, as though the word itself would be enough to summon the demon.

Moriarty.

Surely  _ not. _

Sherlock stared down at the blood spreading across the concrete floor. He couldn’t let himself think about it, about  _ him. _ Not now. First, he had to put one mystery to rest. He took one last deep breath, practiced his Scotland Yard sneer. 

But still.  _ Moriarty.  _

Could be a coincidence, he told himself, as red and blue flashing lights started painting the windows. It was a common Irish name, after all.

_ Oh, Sherlock, _ his brother’s imagined voice a drip of contempt in his ear.  _ The universe is rarely so lazy. _

He heard the clatter of doors opening, his name being called. He flipped his collar up, savouring the warmth of the wool against his chilled, exposed, vulnerable neck, and stepped out into the black night.

\---

The next afternoon, just as daylight was starting to fade, Sherlock boarded a half-empty train to Cambridge. He settled into a seat next to a window, glaring away all other comers until the train lurched into motion. The rhythm was soothing and familiar, and finally he closed his eyes, relaxed his body, and slipped into his mind palace. He walked out of the modern wing, all good lighting and marble, and slipped down to the cellar, feeling the air grow cold, the lights grow dimmer. The walls here were made of stone, the floors of gravel. He turned one last corner and came to the hall that housed his uni years. The time when cocaine had been his friend, when it had blunted his deductions, quieted his mind. The brief period when he’d been able to tolerate the people who came with having a social life.

He didn’t visit this wing often, situated as it was behind virtual locks and chains, thick with grime and darkness. He stopped at a thick wooden door and reached for the knob, feeling the grit of disuse in the grind of the hinges as he pushed the door slowly inward. A waft of nineties synth music laced with cigarette smoke assailed his senses. The room was dark and close, lit only by strobe lights and the tiny flickers from an ironically intended disco ball. What was this place called? He’d known so many like it. Biscuits? The Stables? No, The Chippie. The Chippie was an unmarked gay bar on the ground floor of a three-storey building located an easy hopped-up walk from Trinity College. He’d spent many a fondly remembered evening here, and even more late nights that he’d allowed himself to forget. Now, he strode in, suddenly younger, slimmer, dressed in skinny black jeans and a shirt that was nearly transparent by design under a perfectly fitted blazer. He nodded to Kevin, who was always behind the bar on busy nights, and ordered a vodka soda. 

At first, he didn’t even give Moriarty a second glance. Not his type, he thought. Handsome enough, and well dressed, yes, but slight and dark. Sherlock favoured tall, pale, Anglican types with a little meat on their bones, men who’d never been given no for an answer. He liked giving them that no and watching them struggle to turn it into a yes. He was well aware of the fragile brutality that smouldered beneath the surface of the landed gentry, and he was expert at fanning it into flames. They’d think they were breaking him without realising they were being expertly manipulated, that it was the carnal benefits of their rage that he’d wanted all along.

A quick pass around the bar had demonstrated several options. Sherlock had set his sights on a promising monster with steel cut eyes who was, by the look of the empty glasses in front of him, three whiskies in when the slight man he’d barely noticed had sidled up to him, blocking his view, and held out another vodka soda. “He’s not for you,” the man said in a gentle Irish accent, giving Sherlock a knowing smile. 

Sherlock wasn’t a fool; he took the drink, setting it on the bar beside the one he’d just finished before turning back to face the man with a dispassionate sneer. “I beg your pardon?” he said, each word dripping with ice.

The man’s smile grew wider. “You’re checking out Sebastian,” he replied, nodding over his shoulder. “He’s a...friend of mine. I can see you want trouble, but trust me. You don’t want that kind of trouble.”

Sherlock drew to his full height and stared down at the man. “And how do you know what I want?”

“Well, now.” The man smiled, licked his lips, and leaned in. “There’s a scar at the base of your right thumb,” he whispered. “A recent injury, and wide, but obviously not the first. You have a preference for handcuffs, I’m thinking, real ones. Goes along with the rope marks around your ankles.” Sherlock involuntarily looked down to the tapered edge of his tight jeans. Narrow red lines, slightly raw, were just visible under each hem. “Your last boy wasn’t experienced enough to loop the rope twice. You’d have known better, but you didn’t correct him, so he had you in a gag I’m guessing, a cotton vest, or maybe even some underwear. Dear me, you naughty boys.” The man tsked, shaking his head. “But really,  _ cotton _ rope? Common, but I suppose that’s what you get for flirting with the sailing class.”

Sherlock swallowed as the arrow struck. He drew in a deep breath, keeping his chin high and his sneer in place. “And you could do better, I suppose?”

The man shrugged. “Almost certainly,” he said, imitating Sherlock’s crisp diction. He glanced over at the man he’d called Sebastian, who in return was watching the two of them with narrowed eyes. “But...it’s a school night. Sweet little boys like you need to get your rest.” He let his eyes drift up and down Sherlock’s body. “And a good meal or two, by the looks of you.”

Sherlock flushed. “Fuck you.”

The man had started to turn away, but he stopped and gave Sherlock a deliberate wink. “Oh no, honey. That’s not how this works. Not at all.”

Sherlock snarled and turned back to the bar. He tossed back the vodka soda the man had given him, crunching angrily at a couple of pieces of ice and watching the man in the mirror behind the bar as he crossed over to Sebastian and started talking, angled so that Sherlock couldn’t read his lips. After a moment, Sebastian looked up sharply and caught Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror. As they stared at each other, the slight man leaned over and slid his lips across Sebastian’s stubbled cheek. Sherlock huffed and turned away, suppressing a rising sense of unease. He had a right to be offended, he told himself; it was rude to just talk about him like that, right in front of him. Took a lot of nerve, really, and he liked it rough, not uncouth. He sniffed and slipped another ice cube between his lips. Anyway, it  _ was _ a school night, and threesomes took time. 

After a minute or two, Sherlock found himself quite suddenly light-headed. He shifted on his bar stool, reaching out a hand to steady himself; strange, he usually handled his liquor quite well. Had he eaten today? As he strained to remember, a cramp clutched at his belly, and a slight haze of sweat formed on his brow. Maybe he was coming down with something. Bloody awful time for it, with so much to do at the lab, such as...such as...He couldn’t concentrate. Blinking, trying to focus, he turned and let his gaze drift across the now-crowded bar. The dance floor was packed, the dancers transformed by the strobe lights into a gyrating, thrashing mass. It hurt his eyes to watch. The tables around him had filled and then over-filled with people, and the press of them, their heat, their movements, their _ smell, _ hit him all at once. He pushed to his feet, clutching again at the edge of the bar for a moment to find his footing, and then lurched for the door. 

Outside, he slammed into a light post, grabbing on for support as he lifted his head toward the sky and gasped in a cold, clear breath of Cambridge air. The stars seemed to be dancing in the sky, sparkling both in the velvet black of night and at the corners of his vision.

He didn’t remember hitting the pavement.

He shocked awake hours later, in the service alley beside Bishop’s Hostel, propped up to sit on his numb arse with his face pressed against the cold steel of the door. His gut roiled, and his head felt like it had been packed full of cotton-wrapped rattlesnakes. He couldn’t get his arms or legs to move at first, and at least one long minute had slipped away before he was able to keep his eyes open enough to see why: he’d been bound, his arms wrapped up in the knotted sleeves of his jacket, and his legs tied together with a long silk muffler. The wraps around his ankles, though tight, were double looped. 

It took him far too long to fumble his way free. Finally, he pushed to his feet and stared down at the scraps of fabric at his feet. Despite his headache, he couldn’t help but smirk. He’d always liked a man who made a bold first move.

\----

Saturday night came, and Sherlock was high. He’d timed his dose just right, and his veins hummed like music as he slipped through the door to his rooms and headed out for the night. A block down from The Chippie, just before he reached the end of the chatty, vibrant line outside the club, he paused under a streetlight for one last cigarette before going in to take his chances. He favoured all black on Saturdays, a look he knew suited him; tonight, he wore a tight silk dress shirt, negligently buttoned, and tight black trousers oozing down his thighs and calves into a pair of expertly beaten leather boots. He leaned his shoulders back against the wall and stretched his legs out in front of him, balancing on his heels so that his body formed a long, lean line, and lit the cigarette with a dramatic flare. He drew the smoke in with a long pull and tipped his head back to exhale skyward, taking special care to elongate his elegant porcelain neck. He knew how he looked, and he knew how to use it. His goal was always at least one serious proposition before he even hit the door.

As he pulled in another drag, the slight, dark man from a few days before emerged from the shadows of an alley across the street. Sherlock watched his comically exaggerated double take with a put on look of extreme boredom.

The man jogged across the street. “Hey, there,” he said, simpering, once he reached the pavement. “Listen, sorry I had to run off last week, but you were tied up, so…”

“Ha, ha,” Sherlock answered, in a flat, weary voice. “How droll.”

“Yes, well.” The man smiled, ducking his head in a grotesque parody of diffidence. “Anyway. I believe you have something of mine.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” he said, looking away from the man to the crowd beyond.

The man opened his eyes comically wide as he clutched at his chest. “You wound me, sir,” he said, loudly enough to draw the attention of the group at the end of the line. “That scarf was  _ Dolce and Gabbana. _ If you’re going to be _ that  _ way about it, then next time you want a good tie-up, I’ll just use your old Marks and Spencer tat.”

The group members tittered and turned away. Sherlock gave him a sarcastic smirk.

The man leaned in. “You know my name, of course,” he said, as though there was no question.

Sherlock nodded. “James Moriarty.” He had made enquiries the next day. Now he looked up and down the street with an exaggerated side to side of his head. “But where’s your guard dog? Sebastian, wasn’t it?”

“Sebastian Moran, yes.” Moriarty’s eyes glittered. “He’s working.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock took another drag as he looked Moriarty up and down. Asking around about him had been frustrating. Everyone knew who he was, but no one knew why.  _ Well, he’s Irish, you know,  _ people said, as though that somehow defined him. Moriarty dressed nicely, well enough to fit in, but not so flamboyantly as to draw unwelcome attention. He was a good drinker who avoided beer but had solid taste in whiskey. He was genial, ready to pick up a round here and there when the crowd wasn’t too large, but always careful to leave his change on the mat or tip the barmaid a couple of pounds. He wasn’t a student or faculty member--the university directories had made that clear--and he didn’t seem to work for the government or have a job in town. He spread his custom around to all the gay bars and nights, had become something of a regular here and there, but the strangest thing was that no one, absolutely no one, could remember Jim Moriarty ever picking anyone up.

Now Sherlock dropped the last glowing embers of his cigarette to the pavement and ground it to ash under the heel of his boot. Time to give a bit back. “And it goes without saying that you know who I am.”

Moriarty snorted. “Vain.”

“Not at all,” Sherlock replied. “But Cambridge is a small town, and I am…” He swept a hand down over his body with a flourish. “Distinctive.”

“That’s one word for it, I suppose.” Moriarty crossed his arms, settled his shoulders. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said, drawing the name out. “Born in London, January 6, 1976. Capricorn. Background: mother, a noted mathematician; father...well, present and accounted for. One tragically boring older brother, in minor government service. Family both affluent and somewhat influential.” Moriarty leaned in, his lips nearly brushing Sherlock’s ear. “I’m still working that out, the influence,” he whispered, low and dangerous, his breath warm and sweet against Sherlock’s neck. “Something there isn’t what it seems. It’s  _ intriguing.” _ Sherlock couldn’t help but shiver at the menace in his voice; and Moriarty smelled delicious, all cardamom and vetiver. Against Sherlock’s will, he felt his cock twitch. He cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably. Bloody cocaine. It always made him randy. 

Moriarty was looking at him expectantly. He blinked hard and tried to focus. “I’ve--I’ve no idea what you mean.”

“Oh, I’m sure.” Moriarty leaned back, a knowing smile on his face. “But let us continue. As to our man: is bright beyond question, observant, clever, and a brilliant chemist. Has a nice little hobby on the side solving petty crimes, loudly and unofficially, and Cambridge’s finest has banned him from every station in the precinct. Somewhat lacking in social skills, but who cares, really, when…” He mirrored Sherlock’s gesture from before, sweeping his hand to indicate the length of Sherlock’s body. “Heavily recruited, as would be expected for the top boy at Harrow.” He snorted. “ _ Top _ boy. They got that wrong, didn’t they.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as Moriarty went on. “And not to be coarse, but continuing in that vein, by all accounts the subject was a virgin when he set out for the bright lights and big city of Cambridge. However, fate saw to it that baby’s first roommate had a fondness for both cocaine and dick, nestled in nicely alongside a very mannered willingness to share.” Moriarty wrinkled his nose in a teasing, conspiratorial grin. “Tell me, just between us girls. How much did he have to get up your nose before you let him bend you over and…”

“That’s quite enough,” Sherlock said tightly. Not much, was the answer. The cosseted baby of a privileged family, watched over by one parent who missed nothing and another who had nothing better to do, awkward and friendless, forced to follow in the footsteps of a domineering sibling who valued the family reputation over all...Sherlock had arrived at uni desperate for real life experiences. Drugs and sodomy had done him quite well as a starting point. 

Moriarty was watching him. “How’d I do?”

Sherlock licked his lips and looked away. “Not bad, I suppose,” he said, and Moriarty gave a little hum of approval.

“You like it, the truth,” he murmured. “Even when it’s about you. It turns you on. I could read you out right here on the pavement and you’d be on your knees before I’d barely even started.”

Sherlock stood straight and looked down at him, no expression on his face besides one perfectly arched eyebrow. “Hardly.”

Moriarty chuckled. “Bullshit. You’re half hard already. You know you want it.” Sherlock felt a hand hovering over his hip, starting to slide down toward his firming cock. “Come home with me.”

Sherlock shrugged him away. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said, trying for incredulous. “The first time we met, you drugged me and left me tied up in an alley.”

“Nonsense. I bought you a drink and saw you home. I was a perfect gentleman.” Moriarty straightened and brushed imaginary dust from his shoulders. “This is a one-time offer,” he said, almost to himself. “If you walk away from me now, you’ll never see me again.”

“Oh dear, how will I ever…”

Sherlock caught the tremor of intention from the corner of his eye, but he was still surprised to find himself suddenly boxed in against the hard brick, Moriarty’s hands on his shoulders and his body pressed back by Moriarty’s solid weight. Moriarty’s dark eyes bored into Sherlock’s and they stared at each other, silent. Sherlock had never seen eyes like his, black and deep, so cold they almost burned. Moriarty shifted against him, leaning into him, and Sherlock felt his cock against his thigh, almost as hard as Sherlock’s own. Without breaking eye contact, Moriarty leaned over and pressed an open mouthed kiss to Sherlock’s chest, directly over his rattling heart. Sherlock could feel the barest scrape of teeth through his thin shirt. 

His breath stopped. Moriarty lifted an inquiring eyebrow. “Yes or no, Sherlock,” he murmured, glancing down to Sherlock’s parted lips. “What’s it going to be?”

It was going to be yes, of course. There’d never really been any question.

\---

They walked side by side, Moriarty indicating street crossings and corners to turn with a quick flick of the wrist or nod of the head. They turned onto a quiet street just over from King’s Church. Moriarty stopped in front of a three-storey detached house almost at the end of the block. “This is it,” he said, the first words spoken by either of them in nearly twenty minutes. “Come on.” He led Sherlock through the gate, down the walkway to the entrance. Sherlock glanced from side to side, processing his first impressions.

The house wasn’t what Sherlock had expected. Moriarty had struck him as the kind of man who would have an aggressively empty flat in a building made of glass. But this...It was large for one man, assuming Moriarty lived alone, but boxy. Beige. Bland. Suburban. Tidy, certainly, neatly painted, with care paid to the edges and trim. A small, perfectly trimmed tree sat squarely in the middle of the tiny square of lawn, its leaves brought into relief by the light shining from a second storey window, set into a dormer obviously intended more for aesthetics than function. The driveway had been recently weeded, and the stairs had been swept clear of leaves. A single fern quivered in a ceramic pot on the covered porch. Sherlock turned back toward the street, processing his observations, as Moriarty pulled out his keys. “Do you lease?” Sherlock asked.

Moriarty paused, his hand on the doorknob, and gave Sherlock a sly smile. “Appearances can be deceiving,” he said, pushing the door open. “In through here.”

The foyer was lit only with the feeble flow of a small nightlight, leaving the room even darker than the city streets outside. Sherlock blinked rapidly, trying to encourage his pupils to dilate. He could see Moriarty only in silhouette, an effect he couldn’t help but find arousing. From somewhere in the back of the house, Sherlock heard the slam of a door, but Moriarty didn’t seem to notice.

“Shoes off,” Moriarty said. “We’ll use the guest room. It’s just through there.” He lifted his hand and pointed to a room just off the main corridor.

Sherlock leaned against the wall to unfasten his boots. “Not even going to offer me a cup of tea first?” he asked, as he toed them off.

“You keep mistaking me for civilised.” Moriarty clasped the fabric of Sherlock’s shirt as he drew near and tugged him backwards into the dark room, shoving him down onto the bed with a final flourish. Sherlock landed in a huff of duvet and pillows. “It’s not a mistake you’ll make for long. Take your belt off.”

A faint bit of light crept into the room under the shutters, enough to just barely paint the walls and the furniture in shades of grey. Sherlock suppressed a shiver as he propped himself up on his elbows and considered Moriarty’s shape in the shadows. “You want me afraid, then?” he asked, pleased his voice sounded steady. “Bit of a bully, are you?”

A dry chuckle came from the darkness. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I never leave marks. Now the shirt.”

Sherlock swallowed and reached for his buttons. “And what if I want you to? Leave marks?”

“When I’m ready to claim you publicly, you’ll know it. Roll over.” Moriarty walked to the mirrored wardrobe and opened the door just a crack. “Face into the pillow.”

“Shouldn’t we discuss a safeword first?”

“Boring,” Moriarty pronounced from inside the cabinet.

Sherlock felt his eyebrows go up. He was reckless, but he wasn’t an idiot. “Excuse me? It’s not really an option, you know.”

Moriarty’s sigh could be heard through the solid wood of the wardrobe. Sherlock could see the silhouette of his head leaning back out of the cabinet. “My safeword. It’s boring. I mean the word  _ boring.” _

Sherlock snorted. “I’m pretty sure it’s supposed to be something you would never say during sex.”

“Ha, ha. You’ll be taking that back soon enough. Ah, found it.” He pulled out a long scarf from the wardrobe with a flourish. “I believe I said face into the pillow. And wrists together, if you don’t mind.”

In a matter of seconds, Moriarty had tied the scarf, longer and wider than most, around his wrists and halfway up his arms, with just enough tension for Sherlock to feel the strain in his shoulders and biceps. Moriarty’s motions had been quick and efficient, and Sherlock really hadn’t had time to struggle. The last of the cocaine from earlier was still cruising through his veins, but adrenaline was starting to take its place. The promise of sex with a hint of danger was almost as good as any drug, and his cock was fully hard again before Moriarty had finished testing the last knot.

Moriarty stood at the side of the bed, and even with his face covered and the room dark, Sherlock could sense his absolute stillness. He felt like an insect in a web, trapped and defenseless, knowing the spider was watching and waiting. He strained to pick up the sound of Moriarty’s breathing, but couldn’t hear a thing over the beat of his own bounding pulse. God, he was so incredibly turned on. His cock throbbed against the covers. “Christ, get on with it,” he said through gritted teeth.

“In good time,” Moriarty answered, a smile in his voice, and Sherlock turned his head just enough to be able to look at him. Moriarty stood just at the edge of his field of vision, a shadow with glittering eyes and the flash of feral teeth. “I won’t move while you’re watching,” he murmured.

With a shuddering gasp, Sherlock turned his face back into the pillow.

After another minute, Moriarty pounced. He seized Sherlock’s slim hips, sliding his hands around his narrow waist to make quick work of the fastenings of his trousers. Sherlock’s pants, slim black boxer briefs, followed immediately after. Sherlock felt Moriarty’s small, smooth hands trace up the backs of his thighs, ruffling the fine hairs there, before gasping at the sudden sensation of two sharp pinches, one under each arse cheek. “I thought you didn’t leave marks,” he said, his voice strangled.

“Oh, relax,” Moriarty said with a tiny huff of laughter. “And be quiet. I’m thinking. These long legs of yours are giving me ideas.” Sherlock felt him sit on the mattress, heard the rustle of a cardboard box under the bed. “Let’s see how flexible you are, hmm? This is an exercise band, like you use for travel.” A sharp snap echoed through the room. Sherlock buried his face a little further into the pillowcase, trying to hide an excited whimper. “I’m going to wrap one end around each ankle to start. Bend your knees, darling, and put your feet up in the air.” Moriarty’s hands wrapped around one foot, holding the leg in place, and Sherlock’s breathing stuttered as the smooth rubber of one end of the band was slipped around his ankle. The procedure was repeated quickly on the other side, and Sherlock grunted at the burn in his quadriceps as Moriarty pulled the middle of the band forward and attached it to the bindings at Sherlock’s wrists with the click of a carabiner. Sherlock’s body was stretched now, curved like a bow. The position tipped Sherlock’s center of gravity forward onto his chest, pulling his hips and hard cock up and exposed to the air. He struggled a bit, trying to regain contact with the duvet, but the bands were too tight. Curses tumbled from his lips. He turned his head again, trying to catch Moriarty’s eye, read his intentions, but he’d moved down to the foot of the bed, again just out of his range of sight.

“Goodness, Sherlock, bondage suits you,” came Moriarty’s amused voice through the darkness. “Long lines and angles...mmm. And these legs. You look like a rocking horse. Well, except for this--” Sherlock felt soft fingertips twisting gently on the tip of his penis, making him gasp. “I’d make a joke about riding you, but that would be crude.” Moriarty pushed on one of Sherlock’s feet, letting go so Sherlock’s body rocked back. Sherlock’s cock, growing impossibly firmer, bobbed gently with the motion but still didn’t make contact with the bed. 

Sherlock growled with frustration. “Just touch it already, will you? Or fuck me, do  _ something.” _

Moriarty walked slowly to the front of the bed and bent over to catch Sherlock’s eye. “Sherlock…” he said, in a gentle, condescending tone. “Darling, you are in my house, in my guest room, on my bed. I have tied you up with my scarf and my bands. You need to come to terms with the fact that I am in charge here. Okay? I know it’s hard--” He somehow managed to make a rueful expression while waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “But really. For a man in your current situation, you are being entirely too demanding. All this chatter...it’s just so distracting.” He leaned back and tapped his lips, looking thoughtful. “I wonder what I should do about that. Oh wait, I know something we could try.”

Slowly, maintaining eye contact, Moriarty unbuckled his belt and unfastened his flies. He slid his trousers and pants down as one unit and stepped out of the fabric with a fluid motion before bending over to pick up the clothes and lay them out carefully on the side chair. He made quick work of his shirt and then climbed gracefully onto the bed, nestling his body into the space between Sherlock’s head and the headboard. His cock hovered directly in front of Sherlock’s face, thick and hard and red, filling his field of vision. 

Sherlock heard the rip of a foil package and caught the sharp scent of latex in the air. “All right, then,” Moriarty murmured as he rolled the condom on with efficient expertise. He slid one hand into Sherlock’s hair, briefly massaging his scalp before tightening his grip and pulling Sherlock’s head up sharply enough to arch his back. He took hold of his own cock with his other hand. “I’m going to shut you up now,” he said kindly. “Open wide, darling.”

As Moriarty inched forward, Sherlock clenched his jaw, just to put up a bit of a fight. Moriarty huffed. “Really?” he asked, before letting go of his cock to pinch Sherlock’s nose closed. “I appreciate the effort, darling, I do, but we both know you have to breathe sometime.” Sherlock held his breath for as long as he could, struggling to shake Moriarty’s hand off his nose, before finally being forced to open his mouth to breathe. Moriarty was ready, releasing his nose and pushing his jaw down with a single finger as he forced himself inside. 

Moriarty was bigger than he’d expected. Sherlock’s lips were stretched widely, aching at the corners, and the weight of him on his tongue, the pressure at the back of his throat, made his head spin. He looked up to see Moriarty still and quiet, just watching him struggle. When their eyes met, Moriarty gave Sherlock a distant little smirk, not at all the normal expression of a man on the verge of a blow job. “Now that I have your full attention, you know how this goes: no teeth, eyes open, make it good, don’t come until I tell you, blah blah blah. Here we go.” Moriarty again tightened his grip in Sherlock’s hair, and began making tiny little thrusts, slow, controlled, and evenly paced. Sherlock was used to having his face fucked--it came with the lips and the attitude--but this was different. Moriarty was going to make this last as long as possible, Sherlock realised; this was about control, and little else. Moriarty kept up the lazy pace, pushing into Sherlock’s mouth with little clenches of his arse. He didn’t close his eyes, moan in pleasure, or stutter even once in his rhythm; in fact, Moriarty was staring at his face, his eyes, observing him closely as though he was taking notes. Sherlock’s eyes were tearing, jaw aching, saliva pooling at the corners of his mouth, trailing down his chin, and Moriarty was fucking him as though it was just something to do to pass the time. Suddenly, Sherlock couldn’t wait for this to be over. He had a pronounced oral fixation, and usually he enjoyed a good cocksucking, especially with a little bondage on the side, but this? 

No. He hated this.

He saw Moriarty register the realisation. “You don’t like this,” Moriarty said. He ran the index finger of his free hand along Sherlock’s jawline before reaching up and pinching his nose shut. “Do you. Tell the truth.”

Sherlock couldn’t shake his head--the hand in his hair and the cock in his mouth were keeping him firmly in place--but he stared into Moriarty’s eyes and blinked twice. Moriarty gave him a thoughtful nod. “Good,” he said, released his nose, and kept going.

It could have been five minutes, fifteen minutes, or an hour. Sherlock had lost all track of time. He learned that any slack in his jaw earned him a tighter fist in his hair; closing his eyes got him a flick to the cheekbones. His neck ached, and his feet had gone numb. Finally, finally, Moriarty released his hair and took hold of his head with both hands. “It’s time, darling,” he said, and after three more slow thrusts, Sherlock felt Moriarty’s cock thicken and pulse into the condom. 

Moriarty never made a sound.

After a moment, Moriarty’s cock started to soften and he pulled out of Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock sighed in relief, shifting his jaw around, as Moriarty stripped off the condom, tied it in a neat little knot, and tossed it into the bin. 

Sherlock’s own cock had softened, but it began to swell and fill again in anticipation of reciprocation. Moriarty, though, just shoved Sherlock over to lay on his side and walked over to the door to flip the light switch. Sherlock’s vision sizzled at the blaze of light.

As Sherlock’s eyes adjusted, Moriarty walked over, still naked, and slipped onto the bed next to him, snuggling up to rest his head on Sherlock’s shoulder with a wide smile. “Pillow talk!” he beamed. “Sharing in the afterglow. The best part of any good date.”

Sherlock blinked at him in disbelief. He cleared his throat. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked, nudging him with his hips.

Moriarty made a dismissive gesture toward the lower half of Sherlock’s body. “Later,” he said. “Talk first. But what would possibly be engrossing enough for a man of your towering intellect? Oh, I know. Chemistry!”

“Chemistry,” Sherlock echoed, confused. He struggled briefly against his bindings, but the knots and bands held. “You want to talk about Chemistry.”

“Yes, absolutely. Chemistry is fascinating. I  _ love _ Chemistry.” He walked his fingers playfully up Sherlock’s chest, stopping to rest at the base of his throat. “You’re studying Chemistry, right? I hear you’re the best.” He leaned into his hand a little, just enough for Sherlock to feel a bit of pressure on his trachea. “I have a proposition for you.”

“Not interested,” Sherlock said promptly, leaning away from Moriarty and the hand on his throat.

“Well, hear me out first,” Moriarty laughed. He slid his hand down to Sherlock’s arse and squeezed. “We’d work so well together, don’t you think?”

Sherlock sniffed. “The evidence from tonight, or rather, the lack thereof, says otherwise. Please release me.”

Moriarty sighed. “Oh, dear,” he said, with a pout. “I thought you’d be the kind of man who’d love a challenge. Guess I was wrong.” 

Sherlock frowned. “You’re just baiting me now. You must think I’m an idiot. I don’t even know why I came here tonight.”

“Oh, that’s easy, silly. I’m irresistible!” Moriarty sat up against the headboard and clasped his hands in his lap, looking suddenly very serious in a manner completely at odds with his state of undress. “Now, if you’ll allow me, I’ll explain my business model.”

“Sod off with your business model.”

Moriarty ignored the comment. “As you have already no doubt ascertained, I am a man devoted to seeking pleasure. Good food, good drink, good clothes, good sex...all these seem to me to be the things worth pursuing. I have brains, I have ideas, I have a bit of capital, but I also have much, much better things to do with my time than work.”

“Which of us was it that was making too much noise?” Sherlock muttered.

“There’s a well known business term,” Moriarty said, with a quick look of reproach. “‘Perceived value.’ More expensive things are seen as better. For example, a jumper from a street vendor marked at twenty quid isn’t nearly so desirable as a similar jumper from a posh store at one hundred quid. You can’t push total shite at the higher levels, tragically; not everyone is a sheep, though we both know many are. Basically, then, the situation is that people simply like to pay more for things. I, as a businessman, approve of this. Are you following, darling?”

Sherlock sighed. “Just untie me. Please.”

“Mm, begging. Now we’re getting somewhere.” Moriarty winked at him. “Anyway. It has occurred to me that selling ten bags of coke at five hundred quid each is much, much easier than selling five hundred bags at ten. You can compete in the standard marketplace, or you can rise above it. All you need is a reasonably high quality product and some dynamic marketing. It doesn’t have to be perfect. All it has to be is better than. I’m sure you see where I’m going with this, you brilliant chemist you.”

Sherlock was looking at him in disbelief. “You want me to…”

“Purify some cocaine for me,” Moriarty completed.

“You’re mad,” Sherlock said, shaking his head. He could swear Moriarty’s eyes glittered.

“So what if I am. I’ll pay you.”

Sherlock laughed, a humourless bark. “Money isn’t really an issue for me.”

Moriarty nestled in a little closer. “I didn’t say anything about money.”

“I’m not hurting for cock, either.”

“Oh, dear. How is it that you are so intelligent and yet so lacking in imagination? It’s a tragedy, really.” Moriarty rolled over onto his side and opened the drawer of the side table. “Worth its weight in gold.” He held up a small plastic bag of white powder. “Best I could find out there,” he said, with a nod of his head toward the shuttered window. “It’s imported, actually. Found a source in Colombia, and stocked up wholesale.” He leaned in close enough that Sherlock could feel his breath on his cheek, and held the packet up right in front of Sherlock’s eyes. “Clean this up for me, darling, and you’ll never have to buy in an alleyway again. We’ll both be  _ rolling _ in our own personal mood elevators.”

Sherlock couldn’t look away from the packet but after a moment, he managed to shake his head. “Not interested,” he managed.

“You sure?” Moriarty said, drawing out the last word as he jiggled the bag. 

Sherlock shook his head again, more definitively. “No. I’ve got a reliable dealer and a trust fund. I’ll get by.”

“Yeah, I know your dealer,” Moriarty said with a fond smile. “Marcus, right? Stand up chap, Marcus.” He pressed the bag to Sherlock’s lips. “Really, why not just try it? There’s no risk. You know I’m not a cop.”

“That is exactly what a copper would say. In any case, I don’t know you.”

“So?” Moriarty asked. 

“So...I don’t trust you.”

“Oh, you’ll fuck me, but you won’t cook my coke. I see how it is.” Morairty gave a great sigh. “Well, just promise me you’ll think about it.”

“No. And if you’ll set me loose. I’ll just be on my way now.”

Moriarty set the packet on the table. “Now, what kind of host would be so ungracious as to leave a valued guest unsatisfied?” He rolled back over to face Sherlock, and reached down to wrap his hand around Sherlock’s now soft cock. “Ooh,” he cooed. “A challenge. Something we both enjoy, I think.”

Sherlock gasped. “Stop,” he said, his voice rough, even as his cock started twitching in Moriarty’s hand.

“You know the safeword,” Moriarty said, starting to jerk him off roughly. “Hard to use it when it doesn’t apply, though, isn’t it. I don’t think you’re bored at all right now. Are you. Are you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock bit his lip, only barely managing to hold back a moan. 

Moriarty leaned over him, watching his face closely. “Watch me, Sherlock, watch me. I’m the one who tied you up, I’m the one who made you hard, and now I’m the one who’s going to make you come. You love this, don’t you. You love being at my mercy.”

Sherlock looked up at him helplessly. His body had taken over; all he could do was thrust into Moriarty’s tight fist, slick now with precome. Moriarty leaned over and licked a long streak up Sherlock’s neck. It was all Sherlock could do not to whine. His shoulders ached and his feet were nearly numb, but all he could think about was Moriarty’s dark, consuming gaze and his smooth, snug hand.

“Ah, you’re getting so close now. We’re made for each other, Sherlock, you hear me? We’re a perfect match. Now...come.”

Sherlock drew in a gasp and thrust one last time before starting to come all over Moriarty’s hand. Moriarty smiled, eyes narrowed and predatory, as Sherlock shuddered his release.

As his crisis passed, Sherlock panted into the darkness as Moriarty wiped his hand quite obviously down the sheets. Sherlock was just drawing in breath to speak when he heard the beep of an alarm in the kitchen. 

Moriarty hummed thoughtfully. “Time’s up, lover.” He rolled over and pulled a long knife out from under the bed. 

Sherlock froze. 

Moriarty stood next to the bed for a long minute, looking Sherlock’s body up and down, testing the tip of the blade with one finger. Finally he gave a little shrug and turned to walk around to the other side of the bed. Without a word, he leaned over and cut the bands. Sherlock couldn’t help a grunt of pain as the tension in his thighs eased.

“Well, now. That was quite fun, wasn’t it.” Moriarty walked back around the bed and quickly pulled on his pants and t-shirt. “Don’t damage the scarf, arsehole. This one’s Prada.” He slipped quickly out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him and leaving Sherlock to, once again, work his wrists free. 

It took several minutes to get his arms and legs moving the way they were meant to, but once he’d managed to pull on his clothes, he opened the door to find Moriarty just coming down the stairs, now in a black silk dressing gown. There was music coming from upstairs, something modern and thrashing, that hadn’t been playing before. Sherlock lifted his eyebrows. “Understanding roommate?”

Moriarty shook his head. All of his playful menace had vanished and he seemed tense, unhappy. “There is nothing or no one else in this house that concerns you. Do you understand?”

Sherlock blinked and looked up the stairs. He rarely walked away from a challenge. But his head was still fuzzy from orgasm, his arms and legs were throbbing, and there was something in Moriarty’s eyes that made him think that maybe, just this once, he should just walk away. He straightened his cuffs and started for the door. “Well. Thank you for a frustrating and ultimately disturbing meeting. I do so hope we never meet again.”

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Moriarty’s shoulders ease. “Hope is for idiots and cowards, Mr Holmes,” he said, with a faint hint of his earlier playfulness. “We are neither, I like to think. We are men who make our own way.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out another small bag of powder, and held it out. “Last chance.”

Sherlock sighed. He’d stood next to the side table in the guest room staring down at the packet of white powder Moriarty had left there for several minutes before finally forcing himself to leave it behind. He could feel his resistance dwindling. He drew in a long breath, gathering every gram of strength he had left. “Just...stay away from me. I’m not putting my arse on the line for an over-ambitious up-and-comer, no matter how compelling the business model.” He turned and walked toward the door, reaching for the handle.

“Wait,” Moriarty said sharply. “Just...wait.” Sherlock paused and turned. “You’re so  _ fiesty,” _ Moriarty said with a flirty grin. “Look, forget the coke. Just...come see me again. Any day this week. We’ll just, you know. Have tea.”

_ Fuck, no, _ Sherlock thought. “I can’t. I’m working late all this week.”

Moriarty had noticed his moment of weakness. He walked closer, trapping Sherlock against the door and pressing his advantage. “So come after,” he breathed.

Sherlock shook his head. “No.”

“You’re so cute.” Moriarty pinched his cheek, and then slapped it just hard enough to sting. He took a step back. “Off you pop.”

Sherlock fairly ran back to Bishop’s Hostel. He had just closed the door to his rooms behind him when his text alert pinged. 

_ See you soon darling xxx _

Sherlock slept through most of Sunday, a not uncommon occurrence, and awoke in the early evening with a distinct sense of disturbance in the stale air of his bedroom. He rolled over to check the time. 

A small packet of powder sat on his side table.

He flopped back against the pillow. “Oh, fuck,” he said, rubbing his eyes. Christ, he had a headache.

After several minutes listening to the absolute silence of his rooms, he reached out a hand and fumbled for the packet without looking. He stuck his finger into the powder and rubbed it on his gums.

Not bad, he thought, feeling the distant, welcome rumble of his jumpstarted heart.

\---

A text from his brother came through the next morning. 

_ Haven’t heard from you lately. Is all well in Cambridge? -MH _

Sherlock sighed. It was good news, he supposed, that his brother had been reduced to direct enquiry. Maybe all the spies he’d paid off had finally moved on. 

_ Fine. -SH _

_ Very well. -MH _

_ Please do remember to call Mummy. Her birthday is next Tuesday. -MH _

_ She’ll want to hear all about your work at Cambridge. -MH _

_ She’s so proud of you, Sherlock. We all are. -MH _

He told himself he didn’t care, that what his brother thought didn’t matter, but he felt the same drop in his stomach that he always did, that same ache in his chest. He usually avoided mirrors for a day or so after hearing from his brother. He didn’t want to see what he didn’t want his brother to see.

\---

Late Thursday evening, in the fluorescent quiet of his lab, Sherlock was bent over his microscope when he heard the clatter of the old iron lift doors from down the hall. He looked at the clock in surprise; it was well past tea time.

He was even more surprised when Moriarty sauntered through the door. “What are you doing here?” he asked. 

“Manners, Sherlock,” Moriarty answered, with a hint of reproach. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

_ No, _ Sherlock thought. The lab was a bright, clean space, but Moriarty somehow managed to absorb all the light. He leaned back, frowning. He didn’t need this shit tonight. He was already on edge; Marcus, his dealer, hadn’t been answering his texts.

Moriarty walked over and leaned against his lab bench. “Hi-iii,” he said in a sing-song, and nudged him with his shoulder. “Actually, I’m asking.”

Sherlock frowned and turned back to his notebook. “I’m never high at the lab,” he said quietly, as he picked up a pen.

“Oh, standards,” Moriarty said, nodding seriously. “Never when you’re working, only before and after. Good for you.” He let his eyes wander around the lab; from the corner of his eye, Sherlock watched him focus on the lab bench next to him. “Whose little place is this? It’s so neat and clean, whereas yours…” Moriarty shook his head. “Tidy desk, tidy mind, darling.”

“Yes, well. That’s Stewart’s. He’s been out for a few days, so he hasn’t been here to mess it up. The lab assistant must have straightened for him.” Sherlock looked over at the bench and scowled. “I can assure you, Stewart’s mind is far from tidy.”

Moriarty leaned over and fiddled with one of the knobs on Stewart’s microscope. It was all Sherlock could do not to slap his hand away. “He has nicer equipment than yours. What’s that all about?”

“His is newer.” Sherlock shrugged, returning to his notebook. “Luck of the draw.”

Moriarty pawed through the papers on the desk, selecting one and looking it over through imaginary reading classes. “Robert Stewart,” he read. “Oh, Robbie. I think I know him. Cute boy. We had coffee once. Well, I say ‘coffee.’” Moriarty covered his mouth with a coy “oops” gesture. “Is he your competition?”

Sherlock huffed. “Here, yes. Are you trying to make me jealous?”

“Is it working?”

“Not really, since Stewart is demonstrably heterosexual. As a matter of fact, he’s off right now visiting his girlfriend in Great Chesterford. Death in the family, or something. He’ll be gone until next week.”

“Great Chesterford? Christ.” Moriarty dropped the papers he was holding, shoving them away as if they were contaminated. “He’s going to Cambridge, for fuck’s sake. Can’t he do better?”

“God, it’s like you really do know him.” Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh. “Her family has some money, I think. Owns a hotel there in the village. The Inn of the Crown, or something.” He bent closer over his notebook. 

Moriarty leaned over his shoulder. “Is that all about our project, that notebook?”

“No.”

“No,” Moriarty echoed. His eyes narrowed. “But you are working on it.”

Sherlock looked down at the book and sighed. He hadn’t planned to admit it, at least not yet. “I...well. I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve charted out some experiments, planned an attack, but I haven’t had a chance to…”

“Sherlock,” Moriarty cut in. “Apparently I need to make this clear. Are you listening?” He reached one hand up into Sherlock’s hair and yanked his head back, bringing their faces close together. “Do I have your attention?”

“Yes,” Sherlock gasped, blinking as tears came to his eyes.

Moriarty drew in a deep breath, as though he were trying to keep himself calm. His voice was tight, quiet. “There is nothing more important than our project. Okay? Nothing.” He gave Sherlock’s head a little shake.  _ “Nothing. _ Now, I’m looking around the lab here, and we’re all alone. No one around, right? Before I came in, you were in here  _ all alone. _ You’ve had time. You should be much farther along than ‘thinking about it.’ Now I’m questioning the wisdom of some of your decisions, darling. I need to know that I can trust you to make good choices.” He pulled Sherlock’s back even tighter, so that his lips were nearly brushing Sherlock’s ear. “Now. What’s the most important thing?”

Sherlock swallowed. “Your project.”

_ “Our _ project, angel.” He released his grip. _ “Our _ project. Where are these plans?”

“Here.” Sherlock reached down and turned the key in the drawer under his bench. He drew out another notebook, identical to the first. “I keep it locked up.”

“I’ve got my  _ own notebook,” _ Moriarty interrupted, flapping his hands in mock joy. “Do you see these stars in my eyes? You put them there.” He stood up and dusted off his rear end. “Well, gotta go. Sebastian is double parked.” He leaned over and before Sherlock realised what he was planning, gave him a lingering kiss on the cheek. As he was pulling away, Sherlock felt a tug on the front pocket of his jeans, and looked down to see Moriarty’s manicured fingers slipping another of the packets of powder into his pocket. “I keep giving you this stuff. Soon you’re really going to owe me.”

“I don’t need…” Sherlock started, but then stopped. His eyes drifted to his phone: still no reply from Marcus.

“Oh, take it.” Moriarty smiled knowingly. “I’ll be gone for a couple of days. Out of town on business. See you Sunday?”

Sherlock blinked. “No.”

“You’re so funny.” Moriarty waggled his fingers at Sherlock as he walked toward the door. “Ciao!”

Sherlock watched him turn the corner, listened as the ancient lift doors opened and closed. Only then did he pull the bag from his pocket. He’d been lying; he had run a preliminary analysis. Moriarty had been correct the other night. This was, without a doubt, really good shit. It wouldn’t take much effort to take it from top shelf to private label. He rubbed absently at the back of his head, where Moriarty had gripped it. Despite his fear, despite, well, everything, he wanted to try it. It wasn’t the money, and it certainly wasn’t Moriarty, but...the  _ challenge. _ Mycroft had scoffed at Sherlock’s scientific ambitions, asking with derision how a man like him, undisciplined, distracted,  _ stupid, _ would ever be able to make a living with pure science. He hadn’t bothered to answer, knowing Mycroft had won the fight just by asking the question, but now...this, he thought, turning the bag in his hands. This was his answer. He wasn’t actually going to see it through, of course, that would be criminal. He’d think his way out when the time came, walk away clean. But he’d know he could have done it, and that, honestly, would be good enough.

He’d save this bag for research, he told himself firmly, as he pulled out a test tube and a spatula. Well, mostly. He’d take only a single hit for later. Marcus would turn up eventually.

\---

Marcus didn’t turn up.

At eleven PM on Sunday night, Sherlock found himself in front of the bland, boxy house, staring up at that small glowing window under the eaves. He was high on the last of the packet Moriarty had slipped into his pocket, swaying on the pavement, the rush of his arousal outweighing, for the moment, the tangle of nerves in his belly.

The door opened. The hallway behind was black as pitch, a cavern.

He meant to turn and leave. He didn’t.

Moriarty was waiting just inside. His face was cold as he tipped his head toward the guest room. “You’ll excuse me, won’t you?” he asked, turning for the stairs before Sherlock could answer. Sherlock stared after him for a long minute before he turned and entered the guest room, settling awkwardly on the edge of the bed.

Moriarty came back a few minutes later, holding up a bottle of lube. “Strip, darling, we’ve not much time,” he said, reaching for the band of his own trousers. Sherlock had dressed casually, in jeans and a sweatshirt; he was naked in less than a minute. Moriarty gestured toward the bed, and Sherlock eased himself onto it, lying on his back. Moriarty hummed, assessing him, his gaze lingering on his twitching, filling cock, before rolling him onto his side. Sherlock heard the rustle of clothing, and then Moriarty was behind him, nestling up close. His cock pressed up again Sherlock’s backside; to Sherlock’s surprise, he was already impossibly hard. “I don’t have time to tie you up properly, so you’ll have to hold onto the headboard when I tell you,” Moriarty whispered. “Whatever you do, don’t let go.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Or what,” he whispered back. 

In answer, Moriarty clutched his hip and thrust against him. Sherlock whimpered at the feel of Moriarty’s cock catching at the edge of his hole. Moriarty’s voice was quiet, full of menace. “You don’t want to find out, sweetheart. Here, gag yourself first. I don’t trust you to keep your mouth shut.”

Sherlock took the tie that dangled in front of his face, and, hands quivering, placed it into his mouth and around his head. As he tightened the knot, he heard the snick of the lube bottle being opened and felt a drop of cold lube trickle down the small of his back. He couldn’t help but shiver. “Headboard now, darling.”

He reached for the headboard, wrapped his hands around the post, and a few seconds later, started at the feel of Moriarty’s slick fingers circling the edge of his hole.

“Mmm,” Moriarty breathed in his ear, barely a whisper. “You’re tight. And here I thought I was buggering the tart of Trinity College.”

Moriarty’s finger slipped in and out only a few times before Sherlock heard the snap of the condom and felt the blunt head of Moriarty’s cock against his entrance. He shifted away, grunting in protest. Moriarty reached up and twisted one of his nipples, sending a shock of pain through his body. “I’m not much for prep,” Moriarty whispered. “Next time, prepare yourself at home.”

Jesus, what had he been thinking.  _ There won’t be a next time,  _ he promised himself, though his cock was as hard as it had even been. 

He heard the click of the lube bottle again, felt the burn as Moriarty slipped two fingers inside him. “Better?” Moriarty murmured in his ear, leaning down to nuzzle at his earlobe as his fingers moved in and out, twisting to tease at his prostate. The hesitation of just a minute before was forgotten as Sherlock moaned into the gag, pushing back against Moriarty’s hand. His cock was starting to drip into the chill bedroom air. 

After another minute, Moriarty slipped his fingers out. “I think you’re ready,” he murmured. Sherlock couldn’t help but tense at the pressure of Moriarty’s cock against his hole. “Easy,” Moriarty whispered, grabbing again at Sherlock’s hip. He slid in, forcing the head of his cock through Sherlock’s tight ring with a quick pop and then, with exquisite slowness, easing into Sherlock’s body until he was fully seated. “Ah, that’s it.” Moriarty breathed open-mouthed against the back of Sherlock’s neck as Sherlock panted through his gag, willing his body to relax, to open. Only a few seconds passed before Moriarty tightened his grip and started to move.

It was much like the last time: slow, deliberate, methodical, torturous. Moriarty held him in place with that one hand on his hip, while the other hand slid up his back to grasp and knot in his hair. His rhythm was relentless, his stamina unyielding. It went on for what seemed like forever. Sherlock’s fingers cramped from the tight grip he held on the headboard, but he didn’t dare let go. He could feel every inch of him, ached from the stretch of him. He wondered if Moriarty was staring at him the way he had last time, absorbing every wince and grimace as though they were oxygen. As time passed, he felt the cocaine fading away, abandoning him; his cock was soft now, his mouth dry from the gag. Moriarty kept going and going, until, suddenly, he gave one deep thrust and shuddered into Sherlock’s aching body. As with the time before, he didn’t make a sound.

After only a few seconds, Moriarty slipped out of him. Sherlock heard the snap of the condom being tied off, felt a sloppy wipe of his sore, tired arse before Moriarty rolled away. He started to let go of the headboard, but hesitated, remembering last time and the knife under the bed, the gleam in Moriarty’s eyes as he tested it. 

Moriarty chuckled. “The knife is in the kitchen. You can let go now, darling.” He tugged on Sherlock’s shoulder, rolling him onto his back and sliding over to straddle him in the same motion. He reached for Sherlock’s soft cock with a hand still slick with lube, but Sherlock shook his head. “Aw,” Moriarty pouted. “Did baby lose his coke dick?”

Outside in the street, a car’s engine slowed, and the fan of headlights caught the dark glitter in Moriarty’s eyes. Moriarty blinked once as he looked toward the window, biting his lip. “I’ll have to owe you, darling,” he said, before sliding off of Sherlock to land gracefully on his feet. 

From down the hall, Sherlock heard the same alarm beep he’d heard last time. Moriarty cursed under his breath. “You can take off the gag,” he said, pulling up his trousers. “Just stay here and stay quiet.”

Sherlock had untied the gag before Moriarty had closed the door. He rubbed at his sore mouth with one hand as he sat up and reached for his pants and trousers with the other. He dressed quickly in the dark, not bothering with his shoes, and shuffled over to listen at the guest room door. Male voices drifted down the hallway, from the direction of what he’d assumed was the kitchen; from the pacing and tenor, Sherlock could tell this wasn’t a pleasant conversation. He turned the knob slowly, silently. He couldn’t help but be curious, but investigation probably wouldn’t be worth the risk. He slipped out of the room, carefully closing the door behind him, and then froze as he heard the rise of a deep, furious voice, followed immediately by the sound of smashing porcelain. The silence that followed rang with tension.

With one eye on the hallway, Sherlock walked quickly to the front door. It creaked a bit on the middle hinge, he remembered, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He listened hard into the silence until the voices started up again, one higher now, conciliatory. As he eased the door open, the light from the porch lamp crept in to illuminate the contents of the small table beneath the window: a pen, a ring of keys, a candy wrapper, a hotel matchbook with “Crown House Inn” written across it in a lacy, vertiginous font. Nothing exciting, and certainly nothing he was going to stop to examine now.

He paused to catch his breath on the pavement. His arse ached so badly that it hurt him to walk.  _ Never again, _ he thought with determination, and clenching his jaw against the pain, he walked off in the direction of the college. James Moriarty could go straight to hell.

The next afternoon, hungover from rough sex and the painkilling doses of scotch he’d taken upon his return to Bishop’s Hostel, he slouched into the lab. It was strangely quiet in the building. He’d noted clusters of students here and there as he came up the walk, small groups of three or four talking quietly amongst themselves, but it wasn’t that long after lunch time and so he hadn’t thought much about it. The lab itself was vacant, so there was no one to ask about the large box with the red bow on that was sitting in the middle of his bench. An envelope was taped to the front, labelled with his name in a showy, flowery font. He dropped his bag on Stewart’s desk, still neat, still  _ tidy, _ and slipped his finger under the flap.

Inside, he found a greeting card, cheap and gaudy, with a picture of two entwined love birds on the front surrounded by a number of multicoloured foil hearts. There was no message or signature, only yet another packet of the ubiquitous white powder with “For Professional Use Only” scrawled across it with a fine tip marker. He glanced over both shoulders to make sure that no one was watching, and then slipped the packet into his jeans pocket. That bloody idiot, he thought angrily. What had he been thinking? If someone else in the lab had decided to open the envelope, someone nosy like Stewart, Sherlock would have been on the train back to London and his brother’s clutches right now, banished from Cambridge and the like forever.

He turned his attention to the box. There was no shipping label, no markings of any kind. It occurred to him that Moriarty was rather obviously unbalanced; Sherlock’s bruised arse bore testament to the fact that he didn’t always have his best interests in mind. Opening a present from such a man in the middle of a room normally full of competitors and bullies wasn’t probably the wisest course of action. 

But there was no one else in the lab. He shrugged and reached for the scissors, pushing the packing material aside to find a Zeiss microscope, new and obviously top of the line. An expensive gift, outrageously so. He was still blinking down into the box when Emma, a first year, walked in, sniffling. “Oh, Holmes, did you hear?” she asked, and held out a folded newspaper. “It’s just so...so sad.” Her face crumpled and tears started running down her cheeks. Sherlock looked up from the box to her face and then down to the paper in her hand. 

“Sad,” he echoed, not really a question, his eyes cutting over to Stewart’s empty bench and the microscope that sat there, untouched.

“Yes. Oh, poor Stewart. He was such a nice man.”

“He was an arsehole,” Sherlock murmured, taking the newspaper and opening it. BODY OF CAMBRIDGE STUDENT FOUND, the headline read. 

_ The body of a Trinity College student was found last night behind the Crown House Inn, Great Chesterford. The victim has been identified as Robert Christian Ross Stewart, a gifted student and promising researcher in his final year of graduate studies at Trinity College, Cambridge. No official statement has been given regarding the cause of death, but sources say the death will be ruled accidental. Mr Stewart was engaged to be married to Great Chesterford resident Lily Watkins-Snow, whose family owns the Inn as well as several other properties… _

He looked up at Emma and back down to the newspaper. In his ear, again, he heard his brother’s voice: the universe, deliberate and precise. 

A message, a warning. 

“I need a drink,” he said, dropping the newspaper and walking blindly out the door. 

He spent the rest of the afternoon and most of the evening at the pub across from The Chippie, drinking vodka and texting Marcus to no avail. He took turns at wallowing in terror, self-pity, and fury. There was no sign of Moriarty or Sebastian at the club that night. Sherlock told himself he was glad. He told himself he was relieved. He told himself he was going to flush the packet in his pocket, that he wouldn’t take that first hit, or the second, or certainly not the third.

He staggered back to Bishop’s Hostel and into his en suite. Apparently terror, self-pity, and fury mixed with cocaine made for one hell of a hard-on. 

After he came, he washed his hands, half expecting to see Stewart’s blood between his fingers, under his nails, swirling rust-coloured down the drain. 

\---

_ Would like confirmation that you are well. -MH _

Sherlock stared at the message, watching the letters float in and out of focus. It was very early the next morning. He hadn’t slept for twenty-four hours. Hadn’t eaten, either. 

_ Never better. Why do you ask? -SH _

_ I’ve intercepted some communications. Not regarding you, not directly, but still. I felt I had reason to be concerned. Apologies for the intrusion. -MH _

The phone wavered in Sherlock’s grip. Mycroft never apologised, he thought vaguely. These “communications” must be serious. He pushed up to sitting, grasping the edge of the side table as a wave of dizziness swept through him. He had to do better than this. 

_ Ah, the knight in shining armour. Well, no quest for you today, brother mine. -SH _

Sherlock drew in a deep breath and lurched to standing. There. In a minute or two, he’d feel stable enough set forth in search of water and possibly some biscuits.

_ Good to hear. -MH _

_ I should come to visit soon. Please do check your calendar. I regret being so forward, but I despair of an invitation. -MH _

Sherlock stared down at his phone. The idea of a visit from his brother, for the first time ever, was actually tempting. There was a part of him, very tiny, very timid, that was beginning to suspect he was in over his head. But if he was, it was likely that getting his brother involved would only make it worse. Moriarty seemed like the kind of weed who would survive the salting of the earth. 

Sherlock would get through this. He had to. He’d hand over the formula and walk the hell away. But in the meantime, he knew what his brother expected.

_ You are cordially invited to piss off. -MH _

He could hear the sigh coming all the way from Whitehall. Setting his phone aside, he pulled on a jumper and picked up his wallet. It took some maneuvering, but he managed to avoid the mirror on the way out.

\---

Wednesday afternoon, buried in his research, Sherlock barely registered the creak of the iron lift doors or the click of men's dress shoes in the tiled hallway.

“Hey, gorgeous!” Moriarty yelled right behind him, making him jump. “How about a status report?”

“Christ,” Sherlock muttered, bending over to pick up the pen and notebook he’d just dropped. His heart was still pounding from a combination of adrenaline and dread. Moriarty was the last person he wanted to see right now. “What are you doing here?”

“Like I said.” Moriarty spread his hands wide. “I’m here for a status report. A good manager keeps tabs on his employees.”

Sherlock turned to stare at him. “Employees?” he asked, his voice dripping with ice.

Moriarty ignored him, motioning instead to the Zeiss microscope now holding pride of place on his bench. “Nice microscope.” He lifted his brows expectantly.

“Oh, right. Um, thanks.”

Moriarty placed one hand on his chest and bowed. “I live to serve.” He gestured to the rest of the empty lab. “Quiet around here tonight.”

“Yes, well.” Sherlock pointedly turned his back to him, swirling the flask he had bubbling over his Bunsen burner. “Everyone else took the day off.”

“Ah. Oh, right. Your little friend. So sad. _ ”  _ Moriarty looked over Stewart’s desk, littered now with flowers, cards and little stuffed toys. He picked up a single red rose and presented it to Sherlock with a flourish. “For you, my dear.”

Sherlock’s veins turned to ice. He struggled to keep his expression unchanged. “Macabre.”

Moriarty laughed and tossed the rose back onto the desk. “Puts it right up your alley. The funeral was today, right?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t go.”

“Obviously.”

“Your work ethic dazzles me, darling.” Moriarty studied his nails. “Heard you were looking for me the other night. Staking out The Chippie. Are you stalking me now?”

Sherlock clenched his fist under the bench. “No, I wasn’t. I’m not. I just...wanted a drink.”

Moriarty grinned at him. “Did you miss me?”

Sherlock forced a laugh in reply. “No.”

“What a shame. I wouldn’t mind if you were. Stalking me, I mean. Everyone has a different love language, after all. And you know, I respect a good stalker. Doing it right takes commitment and sacrifice.”

“You’re insane,” Sherlock muttered, as he lowered the heat under the solution. 

“Maybe.” Moriarty shrugged. “How’s everything looking?”

Sherlock frowned down at his notebook, weighing his options. Telling the truth probably held the least risk of escalation. “Promising, actually. I think we’re almost there.”

“Oh,” Moriarty said, with what seemed like genuine surprise. “I hadn’t realised you were that far along.” From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw Moriarty glance toward the window. Strange, they were three storeys up. “Well, that’s just...fantastic. Will we have a prototype soon?”

“Next day or so, I think.” Sherlock flipped back a couple of pages in his lab journal. “Yes, definitely by Friday.”

“Wow. Okay.” Moriarty walked over and slid his arms around Sherlock’s middle, propped his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock froze, his pen suspended in the air. “God, you turn me on,” Moriarty murmured in his ear. “All hot in your lab coat and goggles, cooking for me…” He nuzzled his ear. “Come over tonight,” he whispered.

Sherlock swallowed. “I can’t,” he said, his voice rough. “I have to finish this. Besides, I have an exam in the morning.”

“Oh, who cares. Look around, no one else is working late. Come over.” Moriarty nibbled at his ear. “Wear a plug. It’ll save time.”

“No. I--I don’t want to.”

“I don’t care,” Moriarty said, more firmly now. “Come  _ over.” _

Sherlock bit his lip, shaking his head slowly, but, predictably, his cock twitched and started to fill.

Jim slid one hand down to cup Sherlock’s genitals. Sherlock could hear the smirk in his voice. “God, you’re so predictable. My pretty danger boner boy.”

Shame flooded Sherlock’s body. He closed his eyes. “If you’ll excuse me. The experiment is entering a delicate phase and I need to concentrate.”

Moriarty chuckled, deep and low. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to get in the way of progress.” He placed one last kiss on Sherlock’s cheek. “I’ll see you tonight.”

Sherlock held his breath as he watched him leave. Finally, the rattle of the lift signaled that he was alone. “Fuck,” he let out on an exhale. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” He let his eyes drift over to Stewart’s desk, scanned the many gifts and tributes that various colleagues had placed there as a sort of a memorial. The man had been an arsehole, yes, and a moron as well, but he hadn’t deserved to die. He’d been collateral damage. Had Stewart been pushed in front of a car? Drugged and sent down a flight of stairs? Had it been Sebastian who’d done it, or Moriarty himself? 

The timer dinged, and he returned to the comfort of the scientific method. He finished the analysis, made careful notes. The product would be close to pure, easy to process, profitable. Moriarty’s fortune was right here in his hands, just waiting to be made. He didn’t want to be the one to make it, but he knew now that he didn’t have a choice. He remembered Moriarty standing in the bedroom with a knife, the press of Moriarty’s fingers at the base of his throat. He thought, too, of Sebastian’s slitted eyes from across the bar. He very intentionally did not think about Moriarty at his home right now, waiting for him in the bedroom.

He straightened up his lab bench  _ (tidy desk, tidy mind) _ and slipped his lab journal into his desk, locking the drawer and pocketing the key. After one last look around, one last frown at Stewart’s desk (someone had left him a teddy bear, pointless, why was it wearing a tie?), he threw his messenger bag over his shoulder and started to leave. He was reaching for the light switch when a flash of foliage caught his eye through the window. It was a blustery kind of evening, and the branches of the campus trees were waving pell-mell in the breeze.

Moriarty glancing at the window.  _ I hadn’t realised you were that far along. _

After a moment’s consideration, he hurried back to his desk and removed the lab journal from his desk. He slipped it into his messenger bag, locked the drawer, and walked back to the doorway to flip the light switches. Then he sidled over to the window and carefully peeked out. He didn’t see anything unusual at first, just the riot of branches, but then, from a bench just off the walkway, at the edge of the treeline...the blaze of a match, the smoulder of a cigarette.

Sherlock could see his face in the red glow. Sebastian Moran. 

Sherlock jerked back, thinking quickly. If this was intended to be an ambush, it was going to be a public one. That seemed unlikely; both Moriarty and Sebastian seemed to prefer working in the shadows, often literally. Kidnapping was a possibility, but then why would Moriarty be trying to lure him out of the lab? No. Moran was here to get his journal. 

Right, then. 

He patted his bag over the journal for reassurance and gave the teddy bear on Stewart’s desk one final, definitive nod before walking into the hallway. He clattered down the stairs and out the front door, easing into his usual lanky stride with one hand clutching the strap of the bag over his shoulder. He headed briskly toward the courtyard, in the opposite direction from Moran. Once under the arches of the entry, he took a quick look in each direction and then slipped into a brick alcove he knew from his own cigarette breaks on rainy days. He let ten minutes pass, counting each second, and then, on full alert, made his way back to the building. He could see from the pavement that the lights in the lab were on, and felt the heady buzz of having guessed right. A silhouette passed in front of the window, once and then again, and Sherlock determined he still had some time to wait.

He pressed himself back into the shadows, trying not to be spooked by the wind, and waited until the lights in the lab went out. Less than a minute later, Sebastian banged open the steel door of the side entrance to the building and stalked off toward the gate in the back. Sherlock could hear the cursing as he passed, vicious and hateful.

Sherlock waited another five minutes before slipping through the yellow of the pathway light to the metal door and back upstairs. Once he’d reached the lab,he left the overhead light off and used the torch on his phone to illuminate the room.

Sebastian’s search had been exhaustive, and Sherlock’s bench had paid the price. Sherlock’s tubes and flasks had been shattered, the glass glistening and crunching like ice, and his papers had been pulled from their binders and scattered to the winds. Every one of his pens and pencils had been snapped in two. The locked drawer had been jimmied and was hanging open, its contents cracked, torn, and twisted and strewn across the floor. The microscope had been spared, at least; he’d probably been given his orders there. Stewart’s desk, though, had been completely trashed, the contents most likely forced to the floor by the sweep of a thick, enraged arm. 

Sherlock forced a harsh breath out through his nose, drew in another. His work, all his research, reduced to detritus. He was meant to be frightened, he knew. Uncertain. Intimidated. Moriarty and Moran wanted him on edge; a wiser man would be pulling out his phone and making a conciliatory call right now. Either that, or he’d be packing to go on the run. Well, Sherlock knew he was brilliant, but he’d never claimed to be wise. He wasn’t frightened. He wasn’t intimidated. He was  _ pissed the fuck off, _ and the feeling was growing by the millisecond. He was done being played, being used.

He turned on his heel, leaving the mess behind him, and headed for Bishop’s Hostel. He didn’t bother to climb the stairs up to his rooms, but after a quick look around for anyone watching, he picked the lock of the ground floor janitor’s closet and hid the messenger bag with his journal inside behind a stand of brooms. 

As he left the College, his phone buzzed in his pocket. He hesitated when he read the name, but then, for once, he took the call. 

It took him less than ten minutes to reach Moriarty’s house. The porch light was on, and the front door was cracked open. The second storey window was closed tightly, for once, but he could still see the light of the room seeping through the cracks in the shutters.

\---

Moriarty was waiting inside, slouched on the staircase. He seemed tense. Ready. Sherlock stopped at the bottom of the stairs and they just looked at each other for a long, silent moment.

Finally, Moriarty nodded in the direction of the sitting room. “I’ve never actually offered you tea, have I,” he said, his voice unusually subdued. “My grandmother would be appalled.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Would that be tea for two?”

Moriarty gave him a faint smile. “Yes. We’re alone.”

Sherlock stared at him a beat longer. “Very well. Lead the way.”

The room was tasteful, he supposed, all polished tables and overstuffed chairs, throw pillows on a sofa that had only rarely known a backside. A full tea service sat on a cart, a faint ribbon of steam rising from the spout of the teapot. Little plates held biscuits and candy, and--he looked a little closer--nestled in amongst the sugar and milk were small crystal dishes of condoms and pocket-sized packets of lube. 

_ Presumptuous son of a bitch. _

“Please, won’t you sit down,” Moriarty said, gesturing at the sofa. “I’ll be mother.”

Sherlock took a seat at the far end of the sofa, nearest the door, while Moriarty fussed with the tea. His actions, Sherlock noted, were jerky, almost frantic. When he was done pouring, Moriarty gave him a too-bright smile and handed him a cup on a delicate saucer. Sherlock looked directly at him and calmly, without blinking, set the cup down on the side table.

“What...oh, right. The drugging thing. Don’t tell me you’re still bearing a grudge...look, it’s fine.” He took a big slurp and mugged for an imaginary camera, holding up the cup like he was in an advertisement. “Mm, mm, good! Really, Sherlock. You simply have to learn to forgive. It’s an important part of growing up.”

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. “As you say. But I find forgiveness is easier to give when one actually gets an apology first.” 

“I didn’t apologise?”

“No. You did not.”

“Well, I’m sorry. Super sorry. So, so sorry. There.” He flashed Sherlock a frenzied grin. “Can we be friends now?”

“Oh, of course.” Sherlock stretched his long legs out in front of him to cross at the ankle. “Speaking of friends,” he continued casually, “your  _ friend _ came by my lab tonight. Seemed to be looking for something.”

“My friend?” The frenzied grin reappeared. “You mean Sebastian?”

“Big guy, messy as hell, mouth like a sailor, drags his knuckles while he walks? He walked right by me. I’m sure it was him.”

“Oh. You saw him.” Moriarty’s smile fell. “Well. I suppose I do have to apologise for that. We had a bit of a...miscommunication. I thought we’d decided to wait.”

“Oh, had you,” Sherlock said, drawing the words out. He crossed his arms. “When were  _ you _ hoping to trash my lab?”

Moriarty put his cup down on the cart. He licked his lips, frowned. “Did he...do you think he found what he was looking for?”

“No. I’m not stupid, you know.”

“Of course not. Of course not.” Moriarty hesitated. “Do you have it with you now?”

Sherlock blinked at him incredulously. “What did I just say? Not. Stupid.”

Moriarty sighed. “You’re not, are you. Ugh, _ fucking _ Sebastian. He’s so impatient. And jealous, Christ.” He slid a little closer, looking up at Sherlock through his lashes. “You’re not angry, though, right? I mean, we can still work together.” He put his hand on Sherlock’s knee and squeezed. “I really think we have a special something.”

Sherlock reached down and slowly, precisely, lifted Moriarty’s hand off his knee. “So sorry to disappoint, but you’re just not that good.”

“Oh,  _ rude,” _ Moriarty said. He winked. “The coke is good, though.”

“Hmm…” Sherlock put a thoughtful finger to his lips. “Not murder level good, no.”

Moriarty didn’t even blink at the accusation. “You sure? I bet yours would be.”

“I guess we’ll never know.”

“You’re not leaving,” Moriarty said, no question in his voice. “Come on, now. Sebastian just overstepped, that’s all. And Stewart was your competition. You told me that.”

_ “Everyone _ is my competition. It’s academia. We feast on each other for sport, then use the bones for torches while we’re up late writing grants. Doesn’t mean you needed to kill him.”

“Whatever.” Moriarty made a negligent gesture. “You can’t prove it anyway.”

Sherlock just looked at him, his lips quirking at one corner.

“You can’t,” Moriarty repeated, less certain now.

“Not yet,” Sherlock admitted, and he stood and dusted off his trousers. “And I know you’re clever enough to have covered your tracks. The cops around here are shit and won’t even talk to me. And honestly, I’ve wasted more than enough time on you. I’ve written out my suspicions, with a few tips regarding where to look to find the answers. If anything happens to me, that letter goes to a well-placed member of the British government, who, I can assure you, will devote his life to hunting you down, even if only because you deprived him of the pleasure of killing me himself.”

Moriarty stared up at him. “Your brother,” he breathed. “I knew it. I knew there was more to him than...Christ.”

“He likes to think so, yes.” 

Sherlock could almost see the gears moving in Moriarty’s head. He was pale, now, and desperate. “How...how do I know you won’t just go ahead and hand me over?”

“Frankly, it had occurred to me,” Sherlock said. “Stewart’s family has accepted his passing as a tragic accident, but the truth has its own value. And it would get me back into the police stations again. Tempting. But..I believe it would be best for both of us to just close this door behind us. I don’t like it, but it is the most expedient course of action.”

Moriarty grunted, staring down at the floor.

“Excellent.” Sherlock gave him a little bow. “I will take that as an agreement. Now. Get the fuck out of Cambridge, please. You and Moran. Go start a leper colony somewhere and let me be.” He turned toward the door.

“Wait. Before you go.” Behind him, Moriarty jumped to his feet. “Do you want to fight?”

That wasn’t what he had expected. Sherlock paused and turned around. “Is that a euphemism?”

Moriarty grinned coyly. “Yes and no.” He took a step closer. “I mean, this is goodbye, right? Our tender love, reduced to mutually assured destruction. So why not. One last fuck for old times’ sake, but first...I’ll fight you for who tops.” He squared up, wrinkling his nose at him over his raised fists. “You know you want to. Come on, big fellow. I’ve had my way with you twice. Get a little of your own back.”

Sherlock blinked at him. “I’m a black belt in Aikido.”

“Really?” Moriarty frowned and lowered his fists. “I’d missed that. Well, you know the flaw in Aikido. It’s designed to protect the fighter’s adversary from injury.”

“Oh, right. I’d forgotten. I never was good at that part.”

“Ooh, big talker. Put some money where that sexy mouth is.” Moriarty started pushing the sofa back against the wall. “It would be a shame to ruin those tight trousers. Strip off.” He turned to one of the arm chairs, pushing it back as well. “Go on, then.”

“You’re serious,” Sherlock said. 

“I am, yes.”

“You’re  _ insane.” _

“Of  _ course _ I am.” Moriarty stepped up right against his body, staring up at him with those dark, cold eyes. “But tell me something, Sherlock. Are you bored right now? Well, are you?”

Sherlock swallowed. “No,” he whispered. “Damn it. No, I’m not.”

“No,” Moriarty echoed. “So stop being a stubborn arsehole and  _ strip.”  _ He reached for the buttons at his own throat. “Here. I’ll race you.”

Soon, both men stood in their pants and vests. Moriarty looked him up and down. “You never did get that good meal, did you,” he said, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Why don’t you just…” 

Moriarty launched before he could finish his thought, knocking the breath from his lungs. He landed a good couple of punches on Sherlock’s chin and collarbone, but Sherlock had the advantage of long arms alongside his Aikido expertise and an invigorating dose of fury. After only three minutes of grappling, Sherlock had Moriarty pinned and squirming. Both men were panting from the effort. Moriarty laughed with apparent surprise. Sherlock pressed him down into the carpet with the full weight of his body. “I win,” he hissed directly into Moriarty’s ear.

Moriarty huffed. “Not bad,” he said, shifting his hips under Sherlock’s body. Sherlock gasped at the sensation against his erection; he hadn’t realised he’d grown hard during the struggle. “Best two out of three?”

Sherlock growled. “Wasn’t the deal.” He pushed up to kneeling, and with one hand on Moriarty’s back to hold him down, he shucked off Moriarty’s boxer briefs. “Let me show you a few tricks I learned back when I was  _ top _ boy.”

Sherlock rose quickly, yanked Moriarty up by his vest, and pushed him face first down into the pristine sofa. He grabbed for the lube dish and prepared him quickly, mercilessly, using his long fingers to stimulate his prostate again and again as Moriarty writhed and moaned beneath him. His own heart was racing, his blood surging, his cock throbbing from that uniquely Moriarty-inspired mixture of rage and desire and terror. “Are you ready?” he gritted out, as he wiped his lube-smeared fingers across the immaculate cushion and reached for a condom.

“Get on with it,” Moriarty hissed over his shoulder.

Sherlock lined up and entered Moriarty’s body with one direct, forceful stroke. He groaned. “Yes,” Moriarty growled, arching his back. “Do it. Take me.”

Sherlock took him, fast and messy, his fingers digging into Moriarty’s hips.

Moriarty didn’t make it easy; he struggled fiercely and cursed wildly. He pushed up into Sherlock, snapping and snarling, driving Sherlock’s cock even more deeply inside. On one particularly forceful thrust, he whipped his head around, mouth wide and gasping, trying to catch Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock didn’t kiss him, barely even heard him, as he drove, harder and harder, toward Sherlock’s completion. His orgasm exploded through him like a gunshot, percussive, fiery, and loud.

He slipped out of Moriarty’s body and took only a few seconds to catch his breath before he grabbed Moriarty by the shoulder and jerked him up, Moriarty’s back to his front. He reached around him, grasping his cock firmly, and finished him off, fast and hard, over the tea cart. Moriarty keened as he came.

In the silence that followed, Sherlock heard a door slamming shut in the back of the house.

The sound brought him back to his senses, and Sherlock dropped Moriarty’s body to the sofa. He left him there, panting, curled against the cushions as he pulled on his clothes.

Finally he stood, looking down at the naked man on the sofa. Moriarty stirred, lifting one still-quivering hand, only to let it drop. He was smiling, a lazy smirk of post-coital contentment. “I let you win, you know.”

“Like hell you did.” Sherlock drew in a deep breath. “Moran was watching us, wasn’t he.”

The smile dimmed, and a suggestion of something real--fear, maybe, or hurt--flashed through Moriarty’s eyes. “Yeah. Yeah, I think he was.” He stretched, linking his fingers and reaching his hands high overhead. “He’s not going to be happy with me. He’s a bit...possessive of certain parts of my anatomy.”

“Ah.” Sherlock was shocked to realise he was almost concerned for Moriarty’s wellbeing. An angry Moran would be a force to be reckoned with. “Well. Good luck with that, I suppose.”

Moriarty must have seen something in his face. “Aw. You’re worried about me. Don’t be. I can handle Sebastian.” 

“If you say so.” Sherlock turned to go.

“What are you going to do with the formula?” Moriarty asked behind him.

“Why are you even asking?” Sherlock answered without turning. “Moran’s over at Bishop’s Hostel trying to find my notebook right now. I’ll never get there in time to stop him.”

Moriarty laughed then, a deep, full-throated chuckle. “We’re all so predictable to you, aren’t we.”

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, just enough to catch a glimpse of Moriarty from the corner of his eye. “No,” he said softly. “You’re not.” 

He closed the door behind him. Through the sheer gauze of the sitting room curtain, he could see Moriarty still sitting naked on the couch, motionless.

\---

Hours later, Sherlock took a deep drag from his cigarette and leaned his head back to exhale, watching the smoke drift into the dark, star-filled sky. The street four storeys below him was quiet, the silence broken only by occasional splashes of music from The Chippie’s front door as people came and went, and then, after some time, the hollow echo of the heels of a pair of high end men’s derbies tapping their way up the pavement.

No one ever came up here to the roof, save Sherlock. It was a right shame. It would be the perfect place for an assignation, or a murder.

Sherlock had just lit another cigarette when the door across from him creaked open. He leaned his head back against the wall, shifting his arse on the hard pavement. He was, quite suddenly, exhausted, tied down to the marrow. When he was done here, he was going to bed and stay there for at least the next week.

Moriarty’s face appeared around the door, and in the glow from the metal rubbish bin at Sherlock’s feet, Sherlock could see the reds and purples that presaged the appearance of what would likely be a rather impressive black eye. He'd been right about Moran's jealousy, then. Sherlock idly wondered how long it would be before Moriarty solved that little problem permanently. He had no doubt that it would happen.

Moriarty walked over to stand in front of him, peering down at the bin. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Afraid so.”

“Hmm.” Moriarty shook his head, sighing deeply as he slid his hands into his pockets. “Your poor notebook.  _ Our  _ notebook. All that time and effort. All that science, gone.”

“Yup.”

“It’s a pity.” Moriarty nudged at the bin with his foot. “Sebastian was furious when he couldn’t find it.”

“I know. He trashed my rooms looking for it.”

"Where was it?"

"Janitor's closet."

"Ah."

Both stared down into the bin as a silence stretched out between them. A few pieces of ash rose from the embers and drifted lazily between them and up into the dark night air.

“Is Marcus dead?” Sherlock finally asked.

“Yes.” Moriarty walked over to sit next to him, leaning back against the wall. “I couldn’t have you distracted.”

Sherlock nodded. “He had a baby, you know. A little girl.”

Moriarty just shrugged. “We could start over, you know,” he said, looking up at the night sky.

Sherlock sighed. “No,” he said. It felt like the thousandth time he’d said it, and also the first.

“Do you think this will stop me?”

Sherlock looked down at his hands. “Probably not, but it stops me. I never want to see you or hear of you again.”

“Or you’ll tell Big Brother, right?”

Sherlock rolled his head against the wall to look over at Moriarty. He studied his knowing smirk, the red glow from the dying embers in his eye.

“I won’t have to,” he said at last. “He called me earlier today with a warning. You’ve come across his radar already, and I didn’t have to say a thing. He’s watching you. He knows your name. Might I offer a piece of advice?”

Moriarty made a little sound of amusement. “Sure.”

“Endeavour to see he forgets it,” Sherlock said. “Really. It’s the only way you’ll survive.”

Sherlock watched the grin fade. “Ah, Sherlock,” Moriarty said softly, turning to face him. “I had such hopes. After I invested so much in you.”

“Investment? You gave me drugs.”

“Well, honey, that shit ain’t free.”

“True.” Sherlock chuckled. “I guess I’ll have to owe you.”

“Ha. Guess so.”

Sherlock turned back to look at the bin, now growing black with cold. “It’s over, Jim.”

“For now, yes.” Moriarty stood and offered his hand. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, but took it, looking from their clasped hands to Moriarty's bruised face. He wondered if he was imagining the respect he saw there, or if it was just a trick of the shadows. He supposed it didn't really matter. “Catch you later, Sherlock Holmes,” Moriarty said with a wink, and walked away. 

\---

Sherlock waited a week, but he heard and saw nothing. It was what he had wanted, but it was...disquieting. He still peeked around corners, looked both ways before crossing the street. He needed to know.

Finally, one weekday evening at twilight, he hailed a taxi. The street hadn’t changed--of course it hadn’t--but the house itself looked...dead. All the lights were out, and the windows were shuttered tight. He could see the first signs of green grass forcing itself up through the cracks of the driveway, and the fern on the porch listed to the side, edges crispy. Even from the street, he could see the leaves building up under the hedges, the glass of the windows growing dusty and dim. Sherlock didn’t say a word as they drove by, but at the corner, he drew in a deep breath and asked the cabbie to stop.

He approached the house hesitantly, cautiously, hands free and ready to strike, but he needn’t have worried. It was clear from the state of the door handle and the welcome mat that this house had been abandoned. 

Behind the dying fern, a gift box, plain and white with an exquisitely tied red bow, was leaned against the wall. He picked it up, knowing that there was no one else it could be meant for.

The bow fell away as soon as he touched it. Inside the box was a Prada scarf wrapped around a small packet of white powder. The scarf was hideous, obviously meant as a joke, and he dropped it to the ground without a second thought. A card was taped inside the lid.

_ For you, darling boy, to remember me by. I look forward to our next meeting. _

Sherlock shook the little bag, holding it up to catch the last fading moments of light. He slipped it into his pocket as he turned to walk down the stairs. It was a nice night. He decided to walk the long way back to the College, and once he arrived, he headed straight for the lab.

It was a quick, simple analysis: a hint of cocaine, mixed with enough PCP to see him walk into traffic, dive into a shark tank, or jump off a building, thinking he could fly.

_ Nice try, _ he thought, with reluctant admiration, and headed for the loo.

He watched the powder circle in the water as the toilet drained and thought that maybe he’d lay off the clubbing for a while. Get his research back in order. Finish his degree. After that, he would say goodbye to Cambridge and head back to London, find his place.

He shouldered his bag and turned off the light. Outside, the night seemed restless, secrets in every shadow.

\---

Back in the present day, Sherlock blinked back to awareness as the train pulled into Cambridge Station. He drew his coat in closer to hold off the chill as he walked down the still familiar streets. Even at night, he could find his way.

Every house on the street was still neat and well kept, except for the one he’d come to see. In obvious disrepair now, the house had settled into the business of being a derelict with apparent devotion to the task. The grass was brown and dead, both in the garden and in the broken edges of the driveway. One shutter hung off its hinges, knocked askew, and the paint overall was chipped and cracking. A strand of chain link fence surrounded the property, and the lock on the chain that held it closed was solid and heavy. Sherlock squinted to read the sign on the gate in the blunt yellow of the street light.

_ Condemned. Unfit for human habitation. _

He wrapped his gloved fingers into the links and stared. Years of decay, intentional neglect. Actively, deliberately abandoned.

He’d had some rough years after uni, too much time spent shooting up or coming down. He’d nearly died more than once, but somehow, his heart had continued to beat, his brain cells had continued to spark and fire. He’d found a comfortable place to live, a couple of people who could reasonably pass as friends, a thrilling job he’d learned to love, and now, somehow, he stood now at the cusp of a future he desperately wanted to live to see. Thinking of Moriarty out loose in the world and aware of him, _watching him,_ made him suppress a shiver. 

He’d figure it all out, he told himself. He'd keep his eyes open. He was brilliant. He was clever. He’d never let himself be trapped by the likes of James Moriarty again.

Finally, he’d stared his fill. He unwrapped his fingers from the wire and tightened his scarf. After one last long look, he turned for the city and for home. He lit a cigarette as he turned the corner toward town, the brief warmth of the flame bringing him a tiny bit of comfort in the cold, dark night. 

Behind him, in the abandoned house, a light in the second storey window flickered to life.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Moriarty and Sherlock have a disturbing dynamic in this story, and their sexual encounters reflect that. They go into the situations willingly but sometimes later wish they hadn't. Sherlock hasn’t hit bottom yet, but he’s heavy into drugs at this point in his life. I've tagged it dubcon just to be safe. Read with care if you are bothered by that sort of thing. 
> 
> I think this story can actually fit within canon if you squint, but I've marked it canon divergence so as not to disappoint.
> 
> Except for one sexual encounter that begins with conflict, all of the violence occurs offscreen. The DV is not between Sherlock and Moriarty.


End file.
